


Owed

by samchandler1986



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21813691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: It’s the first time they’ve seen each other since the disaster of her audition, and it’s worse than she ever could have imagined.
Relationships: Sam Sylvia/Ruth Wilder
Comments: 21
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

They sit on opposite sides of a boardroom table at the inaugural production team meeting of the newly minted HDTV network. Colleagues. Equals. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other since the disaster of her audition, and it’s worse than she ever could have imagined. 

She was expecting anger. A tit-for-tat exchange perhaps. To find herself on the receiving end of his waspish tongue again. A perverse part of her almost welcomed the idea, picturing this moment in the run up. Hoping it would even things out between them after her explosion of rage; like a broken ankle fixed a broken home. 

But he isn’t angry with her. Instead he ignores her. Not the pointed _not-looking-at-you-when-you’re-looking-at-me_ kind, loaded with tension. He doesn’t talk spitefully to her through other people. He just makes notes when she’s talking, blank faced. Others take up her points about the network roadmap, debate and discuss them, and he stays quiet. Uncharacteristically mild, to the point where she’s almost starting to worry about him. He’s skinnier than ever. Fiddling with his papers by the tail-end of the meeting like he’s itching for a smoke. But he doesn’t light up, even when Debbie and Bash do. 

“Well, I think we’ve made some great progress here today,” says the latter, around his cigarette

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, gathering his things, even as the rest of them relax back in their chairs. “I need to go see a set manager about a haunted mansion, so...” He nods his goodbyes and finally, finally, catches her eye.

And she realises _why_ she wanted his anger. Because anger means it isn’t over. That some part of him still cares enough to feel _something_. This blank look she receives instead; the tiniest twitch of a smile in recognition of her presence and nothing more; is damning evidence that he doesn’t. 

Her innards twist. She is — as he might say — a fucking grown up. She can accept that he’s moved on and do the same

She just didn’t expect it to feel like a kick from a horse. 

* * *

  
Weeks pass. It’s not that they’re actively avoiding each other, she thinks. They’re just busy with their own things. She’s making GLOW 2.0 and he’s working on his kooky late-night horror show.

And if, in the past, they might have traded script edits and shot ideas, well… those days are done. It’s not like she misses his black moods and barbs. Any more than he’s hankering for her behind-the-scenes tinkering with his ideas and set-pieces. It’s a fairly large studio. It’s not so strange that their paths never seem to cross—

“Uh, Ruth?”

She recognises the sound of Clive, her number one camera operator, bearing bad news. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Jimmy can’t make tonight.”

“What?”

“His – his kid is sick —” 

“Um, alright,” she replies, running a hand through her hair. “What about Bob, is he not…?” 

Clive shakes his head. “News desk have him out doing walk-abouts.” 

“And Mike?”

“Ruth, if there was anyone left on the roster, I wouldn’t be bringing this to you…”

* * *

  
And so, once more, she’s standing at his door. Pinching the bridge of her nose, screwing up her face like she’s resisting actual pain, before she pushes it open and steps into his writer’s room. 

Sam is, as others have told her, sitting inside. He doesn’t look up from the script he’s editing. Frowning down at the paper, pencil in hand; mouth clamped around a lit cigarette. “We still need to work on this fucking third act,” he starts. 

“Um—” 

His head snaps up. “Oh. Hey.” Wariness in his voice matches the look on his face, as he stubs out his cigarette. “Hi Ruth. Sorry. Thought you were Gloria, back from lunch. What’re—?” He clears his throat. “What’re you doing here?” 

“I need to ask for a favour.” 

He sits back. Hazel eyes flinty, holding hers. “Really?” 

“I don’t have a second operator for tonight’s show. Do you think—?” She wrings her hands. “I mean, would you consider—?” 

“Ah… I don’t know.” He coughs, shuffling the papers on the table. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” 

When he looks up again, she can see the hurt in his tight expression. And always with Sam the rage in its wake. She nods. “I understand. I… I wouldn’t ask if you weren’t—” 

“Your last resort?” The bitterness is unmistakable, and she really isn’t sure if they’re still talking about GLOW or not. 

“Someone I trust to do the job.” 

“Well, it’s not my fucking job. Anymore. Is it Ruth?” 

And there it is, the barb of him getting his self-defence in first. “No,” she says. soft. “Hence: a favour. If you don’t want to that’s—that’s fine.”

He sighs, jaw working back and forth as he considers his options. “What time do you start?” 

“Seven.” She can feel her heartbeat in her throat; has no idea which way the dice will fall— 

“Alright.” 

She blinks. “Thank you,” she manages, trying not to visibly sag with relief. 

A shrug in response. “I mean, fuck it, right? It’s good to be owed a favour for once.” 

“Right.” She nods. “I’ll… I’ll owe you one.” 

“Hmm.” He turns his eyes up to her, weaponized hurt under those beetling brows, trained on her like a laser-beam. And she wants to say something; apologise; anything; but the words seem to stick to the roof of her dry mouth. “Sure, you will.”

She manages to unglue her tongue enough to stutter a goodbye. “See you later, then.” 

“Yep,” he says, looking back down at his script. “Later.” 

* * *

  
Maybe it’s because he understands what she’s trying to achieve; juxtaposing the tiny tells of human drama with the grandiose athleticism of her wrestlers in the ring. It was the day job for him, too, once upon a time. Or perhaps they are more alike than she cares to admit when it comes to the angles; the cuts; the framing they both prefer. Maybe he’s just a damn good operator. Whatever the reason, he’s treacherously easy to direct. 

“Thanks, Sam,” she says, after the final call cut. She’s careful to do so over the cans, with Clive still listening in, audio chaperone. “That looked really great from up here.” 

“Great,” says his voice in her ear. From her vantage point in the gantry office she can see him glance up; offer a lightning fast smile in her direction from the safe distance of the studio floor. Then he cuts the feed and pulls off his headset.

She feels curiously diminished, watching him call across to Clive, figure out where to stow his camera. Practicalities she doesn’t need to have any part of. Yet something still sinks in her stomach at his cutting of the line between them. 

She misses him, she realises. Misses this strange simpatico of their work together. His sense of humour, his—

_Stop it._

Because it doesn’t help, focussing on what she’s lost. So, she sighs instead, squaring her shoulders, and turns around to do other, more sensible things. 

* * *

  
Summer fades into fall. Randy turns three, in a riotous cacophony of rubber-smelling balloons and sparkly paper hats, and Mark and Susan announce they’re gifting him a half-brother or sister next year.

Ruth and Debbie drink margaritas together when the party is over, railing at this grotesque inconsideration. For making Randy's day all about him instead.

And the world moves on. 

* * *

  
“I think you’re making too big a deal of it,” Sam says. 

They’re sitting together in her gantry office, early in the morning. Ostensibly editing one of his scripts together, although the copies he’s bought along remain closed. One coffee and one hot chocolate steam on the desk in front of the them.

“What?” 

  
“I mean, yeah, the guy’s a selfish asshole! So, why do you keep excepting him to behave like anything else?” 

“I just think that— I mean, if Carolyn told you—” 

“That’s not the fucking same! For a start, we don’t have any kids together. Thank fuck.” He scowls at her. “Why d’you have to bring her up at this time of the morning, anyway?” 

“I’m sorry! Sorry.” 

He shakes his head. “Jesus Christ.” 

She watches him take a sip of his scalding coffee before dropping the next bombshell. “You know we’re rostered together for the Christmas programming extravaganza?” 

“Oh, God.” He rubs his eyes under his glasses. “Please – tell me we’re not on that _Story of Christmas_ bullshit?” 

“Yup.” 

“I’m not fucking doing it.” 

“Oh, c’mon—” 

“No, I’m serious. Sanctimonious crap.” 

“It doesn’t have to be religious. We could do… something about a snowman? Or – or Christmas Elves!”

“Are you kidding me?” 

“No, no.” The corners of her mouth twitch. “I think there’s a fun story we could tell about… happy little toymakers in Santa’s workshop. All apart from one elf. You know, he’s kind of older; more cynical than the others—” 

“Don’t—” 

“Sam the Sullen, they call him.”

He shakes his head, sighing heavily, although the twitch of his moustache gives away his amusement. “He’s not sullen,” he says, after another sip of hot coffee. “Just sad.” 

Something seems to catch in her chest at this admission. “Really?” 

“Yeah,” he says, continuing soft. “You know, ever since the brutal murder of his friend Ruth the Red-Nosed Reindeer—” 

The knot untwists, as she realises he’s joking. “Ok, c’mon—” 

“And that, you know, led to his crippling fairy-dust addiction and ill-advised affair with Mrs Claus—” 

“Oh, my God. Stop!” 

“You know, I think you’re right. It’s a solid pitch.” 

She picks up her own mug. “Have I mentioned recently that I really… really hate you sometimes?” 

“Yeah.” He sits back in his chair, smiling, as she drinks her hot chocolate. “I think it might have come up…” 

* * *

  
“Well,” she says, as they step onto set together. “I think it looks great.” 

He shakes his head. “You would.” 

There are fake fir trees, glistening with crystal snow. Half a log cabin; giant candy canes and flashing festive lights. It’s Santa’s grotto on steroids, complete with live reindeer. 

“Did we not learn from Rhonda’s fucking white horse?” he grouses, as they find their seats behind the bank of cameras. “They’re definitely going to shit in here.” 

“That’s why I’ve got Matty on clean-up—” 

“Which one’s Matty? The kid with the… glasses?” he checks, waving his hand in front of his own spectacles.

She rolls her eyes. “I mean, he does wear glasses, yes...”

“Alright. Let’s do this hard and fast—” 

“Sam.” 

“What?” 

“It’s Christmas.” 

“It’s November fucking seventh—” 

“I mean it’s… it’s _for_ Christmas. Can you just…?” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know! Find some tiny grain of festive goodwill?” 

He makes a face. “No.” 

“Well, just because you’re the Grinch who stole Christmas doesn’t mean you get to drain all my holiday cheer.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” The open their scripts to the first page, and he sighs. “Really? The Grinch?” 

“Mm-hm.” 

“You know the whole point of that story is that Christmas is about more than just festive crap, right?” She does, but she’s surprised to learn he knows it, too. “Yeah,” he says, catching her expression of surprise. “Not just a pretty face. I’ve read books. Occasionally.” 

She presses her lips together, trying not to laugh, as around them the set of a _Snowman’s Story_ winds up to speed. 

* * *

  
She lets out a shaking breath at the sight of herself in the mirror. She doesn’t have a lot of party clothes, and she’s only worn this outfit once before. Only her GLOW colleagues have ever seen it; it makes plenty of sense to recycle it for this year’s Christmas celebration. Besides, Sam has been non-committal as to whether he’s even going to attend. Chances are he’ll blow the whole thing off anyways. 

He doesn’t. 

She sees him across the room, leaning up at the temporary bar, as soon as she walks inside. His gaze a magnet, as they nod tentative greetings to one another. And she wants to walk over and join him; knows she shouldn’t. She’s been chipping away at the careful walls he’s built between them without really knowing what she’s doing, and now they’re here again. Painfully aware of each other’s presence in the room as they circulate, making small talk. Until she feels almost sick with it, and steps outside to get some air. 

The studio lot is lit in sodium orange outside; the buzz of noise from the party bleeding through the wall of the sound stage turned venue. She puts her hands on the cold metal rail of one of the entrance ramps—

“You know, it still looks good on you.” 

She turns at the sound of his voice, her stomach in knots. She’s wanted him to see her like this again; dreaded it in equal measure. “Thanks,” she says, relieved to find her voice at least is strong. “I like the new suit.” 

He shrugs. “Justine thought it was time to bring me into the right decade.” 

“Well, it’s a good choice.” Silence stretches, filled with the dull thump of the bass inside. “Did you… come out here for a smoke?” 

“Nope.” He turns to look at her, and she knows exactly what he came here for. Something seems to twitch under her skin, sudden heat rising in her face. 

“Sam, I—” 

“Ruth?” Cutting through the bullshit, as always; feelings plain on his face. “Either we’re doing this or we’re not. I can’t keep—” 

She presses her mouth to his, giving him his answer. And they kiss, like they did before, in a bar, almost exactly a year ago. His thumbs running over her shoulders, his fingers curling around her neck. He folds her into his arms, her body held against his, as she wraps her arms around his neck.

“Sam?” 

He doesn’t stop kissing her, not this time, and she understands why. It feels like tempting fate, like _deja-vu_. “Mmm?” 

“Let’s go.”

He nods, forehead pressed to hers, thumb running over her cheek. “Alright.” 

* * *

  
She’s wearing his tuxedo jacket when the taxi picks them up from the sidewalk. They ride in silence at first. Fingers finding his across the leather back seat. Squeezing affection, his thumb tracing over the back of her hand. A kiss; two; three. Soft, chaste, in the awkward presence of the driver. His hand stays in hers, thumb worrying over her knuckles the whole ride home. He’s still holding on to her as he unlocks his front door and brings her inside.

She leans up to kiss him as the door closes behind them, like she’s been wanting to the whole ride home.

“Do you want, uh, a drink? Or—?” 

“No, I’m – I’m fine.” 

He nods, as she slips off his jacket, and takes her by the hand again to lead her into his bedroom. It’s not untidy, not exactly, but it’s clear he wasn’t expecting company either. There are posters on the walls of his movies, piles of science fiction paperbacks she itches to investigate. 

“You want the tour?” he jokes, catching the drift in her gaze. 

“Not... Not right now.”

“Hmm...” He captures her mouth once more.   
There’s something different in his kiss now they’re here; together alone. Deeper and fiercer, his hands moving down from her shoulders to trace the curve of her waist, pulling her hips against his.

She can feel him, hard against her, through the thin fabric of his formal trousers. She reaches down to run her hand over his erection. Just brushing against it at first, until his fingers find her wrist, gently guiding her back. She strokes him through his trousers, smiling against his mouth, as he sighs involuntarily at her touch. 

His fingers trail up, along her spine, finding the zip between her shoulder blades as they make out. He pulls it down slowly, carefully. Her gold wrapper loose now. Hanging by spaghetti straps. His thumb hooks one, pulling it over to one side, then he does the same with the other. Gravity does the rest of his work for him, the dress sliding down as they kiss, slowly exposing her breasts.

He takes them in his hands. Squeezing, gentle at first. Harder in response to her soft moan. His mouth slips from hers, kissing down her neck, far too slow. She guides his head further down with her hand. Gasping, as he finds her nipples with his mouth, his tongue. Her fingers wind tight in his hair.

Eventually she pulls him back. Tracing over his cheeks, the line of his jaw. Fumbling for the top button of his shirt. He follows her lead, peeling her out of her dress and her panties. Until they’re both standing naked at the foot of his bed. 

“Jesus Christ, Ruth. You are... so fucking beautiful.” 

He kisses her again, hard, pressing his body against hers. His erection proud and insistent against the skin of her belly. _And you are too,_ she would say, if she wasn’t so busy kissing him. If she thought, for a second, that he might believe her. Instead she tries to tell him with her hands; her mouth. Following the broad slope of his shoulders. Squeezing his biceps; kissing the line of his collarbone.

He puts his hands between her legs, grinning to find her wet for him. She bucks against his fingers; needy; and his breath hitches. “C’mere,” he manages, voice a burr, and he lays her down gently on his mattress. 

He kisses down her body for a while, stroking her skin. Until she can’t bear it any more. She hooks her leg around him, rolls her hips against him. He’s lined up where she wants him, and she slides down onto his cock, burying him deep inside her. He lets her move up and down the length of him. Torturously slow. Until eventually his resolve breaks and he rolls her onto her back.

His fingers knit with hers, holding her hands beside her head, against the pillows. She arches her back, locking her legs around him as he finally fucks her hard. Feeling him swell, and they're moaning in duet now with each thrust. She knows he’s close, as she is; wants him to spend himself. Encouraging him harder and faster and –

She cries out, every muscle in her body clenching in time with the surge she feels inside her. They come together, slippery with sweat and calling for each other. Remaining tangled; noses tracing the line of each other’s faces and kissing soft and tender, for a long time after they're done.

“Will you stay?” he asks, ridiculously, as he strokes his hand through her hair. She almost laughs, but knowing him thinks better of it; kisses him again instead. 

“Yes,” she says. "I'll stay."


	2. Chapter 2

She opens her eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling; the room cast in grey shadow. Sam, fast asleep, is at her side.

She turns to look at him. Watching the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. There is the crease of a frown, even now, between his eyebrows. Like he’s resisting something uncomfortable. He probably wouldn’t appreciate being the subject of her scrutiny like this, but she can’t help it. Sam—this naked, soft-with-sleep, almost _vulnerable_ seeming Sam—feels half a stranger.

She aches to touch him. To stroke flat his hair, all askew; run her fingers across the dark shadow of stubble on his jaw. But she can’t wake him and break the spell of this strange, stolen time. Almost as if she has waited so quietly that a bird has landed close at hand. If she moves it might take flight, and who knows if she’ll ever see it again? She lies still instead. Trying not to think how ridiculous it is, to wake with this weight of feeling for him; a stone on her chest—

“Hey,” he says, making her startle. His voice is deep, rough with sleep. Opening one eye and then the other to blink up at her. Without his glasses they seem much larger in his face. She’s tried not to notice before, how striking they are, but now she feels like she’s drowning in them. “You okay?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Hm. Good.” He still looks unsure of himself as he reaches for her, pulling her back into his arms. She kisses him in response. His mouth opens eager under hers and all the uncertainty between them seems to evaporate. His skin is warm, and he smells, not unpleasantly, of sex. She can feel the stirrings of his arousal against her, as their bodies re-entwine, and the ache of want thrums between her legs.

Dawn light, gold and soft, infiltrates the room as they make love. His fingers dig into her hips, face tightening, as she rocks back and forth on him. Panting gasps of pleasure shared between them, in time with the motion. She cups his cheek, eyes on his. As he tries, as he fails, to hold back from the edge. “Ruth. God. _Fuck_.”

Afterwards, for a long time, both of them are at a loss for words. For once there’s nothing between them that’s left unsaid.

* * *

Eventually, they have to get out of bed. Even if it’s only to find breakfast.

He drags on a tee shirt and boxer shorts. “Um,” she says, confronting the reality that she has very little clothing to actually put back on.

“Oh. Uh, here. You can borrow… Yeah.”

A clean sweater. He’s so much bigger than her it’s longer than her dress when she pulls it over her head. “Thanks,” she says, rolling up the sleeves to give her use of her hands.

“It’s fine.” He seems oddly dazed at the sight of her in cotton jersey but pulls himself together. “How’d you feel about pancakes?”

“Hm. Positive?” 

She brews their coffee, familiar enough with his kitchen space that it doesn’t feel a presumption, while he clatters about in the cupboards. To her surprise, he makes batter from scratch. She watches him stir together the eggs and flour over the top of her mug. That strange, heavy feeling is back, as she sips scalding coffee. Like she’s being anchored to this moment, a point in her personal history she doesn’t think she will ever, ever forget.

They sit and eat fat golden pancakes at his kitchen table. Stealing glances at one another between bites: she knows because eventually she catches him looking. His mouth twists into a smile. “Alright, ok...”

“I didn’t say _anything_.”

“I know, you just _thought_ it so fucking loud that I...” He sighs, but happily for once. “Anyway. I’m glad you could— Uh, you know, that we— Well—”

“Me too,” she says, putting him out of his misery. 

The question of _what happens now_ hangs in the air between them, but neither one of them dares to speak it aloud. Maybe this is all they’ll ever have, and they don’t want to spoil the moment by casting that pall.

He clears his throat carefully. “You have exciting plans for today?”

“Uh, scene study class. With Sheila. At two.” It’s already almost eleven. Like it or not, she’s going to have to leave here soon. 

His moustache twitches, but he keeps amusement at her plans to himself. “Alright.”

Too late she realises he was, perhaps, angling to extend their time together. “I’m free on Sunday?” she blurts out.

 _Now_ he winces. “Ah, Justine is… Here.”

“Right! Right! You said on set. Um. Well, you know, we’ll see each other on Monday. At work.”

“Sure.” He bites his lip, frowning. “Er. Can I at least give you a fucking ride home?”

“Yeah,” she says, more squeakily than she’d like. “And um, you know, let me… wash this sweater for you.”

“It’s fine—”

“No, I want to—”

“Ruth?”

His hand finds hers, calling a halt, and she makes the mistake of looking up at him. It’s a face she’s seen before. Like she is some piece of art he can appreciate but never understand. Resigned but not unhappy. _I don’t deserve that_ , is what her brain whispers. _I am not what you think, I—_

He leans across the table and kisses her before they can dig any deeper. Taking her face in his hands. “C’mere. Please.”

She isn’t exactly sure where _here_ is, beyond his embrace, but he doesn’t have to ask twice. They kiss like the world is ending, like this is all they’ll ever have to remember one another by. Frantic. His hand finds her bare leg, below the hem of his sweater. Thumb tracing up, over her thigh—

“Yes,” she gasps, and he stops, drawing back like he can’t quite believe what he’s heard. “Please.”

The face he makes at this declaration of want; of need; drives a spike of arousal through her. He nods, kissing her again. She wraps her arms around his neck, and he lifts her up and carries her back to his bed.

* * *

It’s their final production team meeting before the holidays and she is, as always, the first to arrive. Helping herself to coffee from the cart, willing herself to focus on schedules and programming and other sensible things. Certainly not Sam. Who she has not seen or spoken to since a lingering goodbye kiss in his car.

Maybe she should have called him. Probably she should have called him. But what to even _say_? It’s not like he called _her_ —

“Good morning Ruth.”

She’s dismayed to find her heart skips a beat at the sound of his voice. He is uncharacteristically early, unusually chipper, and followed closely into the room by Bash and Debbie.

“Hi,” she returns, managing to keep the squeak out of her voice. “Good weekend?” she adds, coy.

“Yeah.” The corners of his mouth twitch. “Not too bad. Do you wanna…?” He indicates the two closest chairs, and they take seats at the table next to one another.

She is oddly conscious of his hands, as he puts his leather portfolio down on the table, his coffee cup. Aware of the line of his shoulders under his knitted sweater in a way she can’t recall happening before. Still, as long as she’s careful not to look _at_ him, she can put it aside and focus on the priorities. Arguing back and forth the order of Christmas Day programs and New Year plans for the network.

“Sam, you know we all love _Twisted Tales_ , I just think Christmas Eve people will be expecting something a little…” Bash waves his hands expansively. “… Seasonally appropriate.”

“It’s a Christmas themed fucking episode,” Sam fires back. Under the table his knee touches hers. At first, she thinks it’s accidental, expecting him to move his leg again as he continues his argument.

“You can have the slot on the twenty-sixth,” Debbie says. Ruth concentrates on keeping her face carefully, carefully blank.

“Aw, c’mon. Christmas Day.”

His knee is still pressed against hers. She shifts her weight carefully, to apply the pressure back. He doesn’t move and—

“Ruth?” says Debbie, bringing her back into their argument. “What do _you_ think?”

“Um.” She turns to him without thinking. His fierce expression suddenly softens, when he’s looking at her, and she can feel heat rising in her cheeks. Under the table, unseen by the others, they’re still touching. “I think Christmas Day is fair.” 

“Hmm.” Debbie narrows her eyes briefly and Ruth’s innards squeeze with sudden nervousness. How much her friend can spot, already, from the change in body language, she dreads to think. “Well, I guess that’s two in favour…”

* * *

Their respective offices are in the same building across the lot. It’s not so strange they are walking out together, Ruth reminds herself.

“You got five minutes to talk about editing on _Snowman’s Story_?”

And this too has become their normal. Just work colleagues discussing work. Nothing noteworthy about that. “Sure. My office?”

She can feel her heart beating against her ribs, as he nods. He follows her, wordlessly. Across the darkened GLOW set and up the stairs, to her office in the gods. The door clicks shut behind them, and she turns to him again, her mouth framing some pointless pleasantry. But when she meets his eyes it’s like someone has thrown a switch. They reach for one another in the same instant; kissing hungrily in the gloom.

“I wasn’t sure if—

“Christ, Ruth, I can’t stop thinking about—

Cutting each other off with more fierce kisses; holding onto one another so tightly it’s almost painful.

“Hey,” he says eventually, nose to nose with her, hand stroking through her hair. Smiling like an idiot. The same expression, she knows, is pasted all over her own face.

“Hi.”

“You know, the – the fucking _Snowman_ stuff... It can wait.”

“Mmf. No, we should… we should talk about that,” she manages, before he captures her mouth again. His hand finds the gap between her sweater and her pants; she shivers involuntarily as his palm moves over her hip, into the small of her back—

She breaks their kiss. “Sam.”

“What?”

“It’s not that I don’t want—” She bites her lip. “I just think that when we’re here we should… at least try to keep things professional?”

He sighs but nods his agreement. “Sure, Ruth.”

They disentangle, standing awkward now, too close to one another still. He has, she thinks, missed the other implication of her words. “But you know,” she continues, swallowing the nervous lump in her throat, “when we’re _not_ here…”

His expression brightens, as he realises what it is she’s saying. “You have much free time coming up?”

“Mm-hm,” she nods. The heart-thump mix of fear and excitement is back, behind her ribs. “I mean, things look pretty quiet in my diary… tonight. From seven. If you’re – if you’re also free…?”

“Yeah, I’m— uh—” He clears his throat. “It’s a date.”

“Great!” She can’t quite suppress the sigh of relief. “So,” she continues, dropping into her usual chair, “tell me more about the _Snowman_...”

* * *

He buzzes her apartment at seven o’clock precisely. And he has flowers, because he’s old enough to be old-fashioned liked that, and a nervous expression that makes sense given their circumstances. A dinner reservation, too, she finds out about later. When they’re curled around one another in her bed, naked and breathless, the sweat of their frantic coupling still drying on their skin.

She didn’t intend to derail the plans he’d made, but his _I-missed-you-already_ kiss has led them badly astray. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” he replies, making her chuckle. “I mean, Jesus Christ, Ruth. What guy doesn’t want that kind of a welcome?”

She makes an indignant noise. “It’s not— I mean, I wouldn’t _usually_ —”

“I know, I know.” He rolls onto his back, putting his arm around her, so she can lay her head on his shoulder. “You… um. You got plans for the holidays?”

“Not really,” she admits. Her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest now; down over his belly. “My parents are away, so… What about you? Is Justine—?”

He shakes his head. “Not for the main event.”

There is a long moment of silence.

“If you wanted to, we could always—"

“Maybe we could hang out, if—”

They stop, and he smiles at her. “Sure, Ruth. I’d like that.” Closing his eyes, sighing happily. "Yeah. I'd like that." 


	3. Chapter 3

The flickering light of the television screen competes with the colourful bulbs on the Christmas tree. Debbie and Ruth are curled on the couch together, like a scene from Christmas past. Before Mark, before Randy; before betrayal and bitterness and any need for forgiveness. It’s practically a Christmas miracle, Ruth muses, taking another sip of her eggnog. Her cheeks are already flushed with several stiff measures of the stuff. “Did you decide what you want to watch?” she hiccoughs.

“Oh, anything, really,” replies Debbie. “You can choose.”

Ruth winces at her downcast tone. Reaching across the jolly snowman blanket that covers them both to take her friend’s hand. It’s an effort to keep another pointless apology behind her teeth. Because of course she feels responsible, at least in part, for Debbie’s Christmas Eve without her son. The reality of joint custody biting hard.

“You okay?”

Debbie makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh. “I just keep thinking about what he’s doing right now.” She gestures vaguely with her free hand. “Even though I know he’s probably just… asleep.”

“Well, I think he’s going to love his presents tomorrow.”

“I hope so.” She sighs, letting go of Ruth’s hand. “Oh-oh, can we talk about something else? I don’t want to cry anymore on Christmas Eve.”

Ruth nods. “Did I tell you that Sheila’s writing a play?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s a re-working of _Little Red Riding Hood_.”

“Well, that figures. Are you still doing that scene study class together?”

“Mm-hm.”

Debbie shakes her head, chuckling now; to Ruth’s relief. “God, I used to love that class with you. The guy with the bald head and the beard; what was his name?”

“Mr Antimony?”

“Yes! Do you remember that time he did that whole monologue about the dignity of man? With tissue paper—”

“—tissue paper stuck to his chin! Yeah, I remember,” Ruth laughs. Her smile twisting slightly, as she considers who they were then; who they are now. “You know, you could come with us. If you – if you ever wanted to…”

Debbie shakes her head. “I feel like I’d be out of practice.”

Ruth presses her lips together. “Well, if you ever change your mind...'

“Is that who you’re hanging out with tomorrow evening? Your scene study friends?”

It’s not a pointed question; Debbie sounds wistful rather than sharp. Still, Ruth squirms with a pang of guilt. “No. No, I—”

“Ruth. Relax. I’m not mad that you’ve got a better offer for Christmas dinner than… an over-excited three-year-old, my Mom and fucking _Ron_.”

“I didn’t say it was a better offer—”

“No,” Debbie agrees, running her hand over her chin and down her neck. “But you’re being mysterious about it and… I guess I... Well, I worry a little.” She gestures, wordless, somehow still conveying the sense of something blowing up and out of control. At least from where Ruth is sitting.

She hangs her head. “I’m not trying to be mysterious. I’m just… probably doing something really stupid, and it’s easier to not say anything, and… I don’t know! I don’t know.” She risks looking up, into Debbie’s incredulous expression.

“You realise, as your friend, I’m going to _have_ to ask you more questions about this? Because it sounds like you’re going for Christmas dinner with a serial killer.”

Ruth lets out a breath; half a sigh, half a laugh; and nods. “I know, I know. I mean, I’m not. But...”

“Okay. Um, let’s start simple. Is your dinner tomorrow… with a man?”

Ruth screws up her face, equal parts amused and embarrassed. “Yes.”

“A man that works for HDTV?”

“…Yes.”

“Mm-hm. And does this man have… the Fonz's leather jacket and a porn star moustache?”

And of course, Debbie already knows.

“Yes,” Ruth whispers.

There is a long pause, the silence between them filled with the faint sound of Christmas music from the kitchen radio. Eventually Debbie heaves a long sigh. “I mean, you’ve not _exactly_ been subtle. Disappearing together from the party... Holding hands, or-or whatever the fuck it was you were doing under the table—”

“We did _not_ hold hands—”

“Ruth?”

She gives it up. “I’m sorry,” she manages, mortified now. 

“For what?”

“I don’t know! I just feel like...” Like she can’t find the words to describe quite how she feels.

Debbie’s laughter at her outburst isn’t exactly helpful in this regard. “Ruth, will you calm down?”

“I— I’m calm! I mean, I—”

“Look,” Debbie takes deep breath. “I can’t pretend to understand what… the fuck you see in Sam. But if he’s making you happy...”

“He… I…”

“Is he? Making you happy?”

Ruth presses her fingers to her forehead, making an irritated kind of noise. Because what kind of a question is that, really? She opens her mouth to say as much. Looks into Debbie’s open face and realises it’s one she should be able to answer honestly. Somehow it always gets lost in her over thinking of things. It shouldn’t be _what does this look like, what does this mean, where is this going?_ Just the simple truth of: _is he making me happy?_

“Yes,” she says. Immediately compelled to offer more context, twisting her hands as she talks: “I mean, we’ve not exactly gone on a lot of dates. And, we’re not—at work we’re not—” She trails off at the sight of Debbie’s mildly appalled expression. “But… yes. I think so.”

She thinks happy is the word. Or something like it. She feels _alive_ when they’re together; like she looks at the world through fresh eyes. And she knows how she makes him feel; a man who's numbed himself to the world for years suddenly exposed, a raw nerve when he’s around her. It’s weirdly intoxicating, after years of being the runner-up in life, to find herself at the centre of someone’s world. To be so badly wanted, body and soul.

“Well,” Debbie manages, still battling laughter, “I can’t even begin to imagine a Sam Sylvia Christmas.” She pulls her lips over her teeth, but some questions need to be asked. “Does he even…?”

“What?”

“… know how to cook?”

Ruth laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, he's made dinner before. He can… he can cook.”

“Fascinating.” Debbie cracks into mirth again at the sight of Ruth’s blushes. “Okay, I think we need more alcohol. A _lot_ more alcohol. And I will stop torturing you about this, now I know you’re not going for dinner with the fucking Manson family. And we can watch _It’s A Wonderful Life_ for… God, I think the three-hundredth and seventh time?”

“That,” says Ruth, with palpable relief, “sounds perfect.”

* * *

He looks about as anxious as she feels when he opens his door. Freshly shaved, his hair carefully brushed. She thinks he might even have ironed the shirt that he’s wearing.

“Hey! How was Christmas morning with Debbie and the kiddo?” And she knows him well enough to hear the relief in his voice.

“We had fun.” Stepping into the smell of roast dinner with just a _hint_ of a nervous cigarette. “Wow! You... you decorated.”

“Well, it was mostly Justine,” he confesses. “I, uh, I made the star, though. For the tree.”

“It looks very nice.”

“Thanks.” It always comes out sounding sarcastic, with Sam. “Do you... want a drink?”

“Sure.”

He moves to pour them both a glass, from the bottle of wine on the table he’s set for two. It’s a strange thing to bring a smile to her face. But she’s genuinely touched that he took the time, thinking of them both here together, to lay out fancy cutlery and wine glasses and even festive red table napkins…

Maybe Debbie has a point about her expectations being too low. But then, so are his. She can see his mouth, a worried line under his moustache. That furrow between his eyebrows. He’s wary. Like some wounded animal, waiting to see if she’s here to help or hurt him; claws at the ready in case it’s the latter again.

She always was the kind of girl who bought home broken baby birds, she thinks, as he passes her wine. “Merry Christmas Sam.”

“Merry Christmas Ruth,” he says, and their glasses clink.

* * *

“You know,” she says, balancing her wine on the coffee table before they sink into his couch, after dinner, “that was actually pretty great.”

“Always the tone of surprise.”

“Well, it doesn’t exactly go with the reputation you’ve established for yourself—”

“As what?”

She looks up, into his scowl. Her own mouth tugging into a smile. “A… scoundrel?” 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he manages, shaking his head in disbelief. But his frown is fading as he chuckles at her choice of words, and he suddenly puts his arm around her. Like he’s only just remembered that’s a thing that they can do now. Narrowing his eyes, like he’s considering—

She kisses him, taking his stupid face in her hands to do so thoroughly. He’s grinning, under her mouth.

“What?”

“What do you mean, what?”

“You’re… mm… smiling…”

“Because I’m _happy_ , Ruth.” He breaks apart from her for a moment. “I mean, this is probably the best fucking Christmas I’ve had in ten years.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Really?”

“Yes. You idiot.”

They kiss some more. “I just assumed—”

“Oh, my God, really?”

“No, I just, I thought maybe this would be a bit tame compared to… to what you’d usually do.”

He shakes his head. “It’s Christmas, Ruth. I used to spend it with family. Until, you know, there wasn't any. I mean, apart from Justine. But I wasn't going to fight Rosalie over her staying here for the holidays.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “What about you? You didn’t—?”

“I used to go home. Until… I don’t know. I told myself I wasn’t going to borrow any more money to buy plane tickets. And… last year was the first time in five years that I went back.”

“Fuck.” The distant sound of the dishwasher fills the silence that buzzes in the wake of this pronouncement. “What about this year, you must’ve—?”

“This year they decided to go travelling in Europe.”

“Ah.”

She has, she realises as they stare at one another, rather spectacularly killed the mood. “I’m sorry,” she says again.

“It’s fine. I mean, at least we’re both equally fucking tragic. Otherwise this might be awkward.”

She laughs at that, and he kisses her this time, as she chuckles—

_And is he making you happy?_

For a second, Debbie’s voice in her head is as clear as if she’s there in the room. He deepens their kiss, and she wraps her arms around him.

 _Yes_ , she thinks.


	4. Chapter 4

Really, she tells herself, she should be going. The wine they drank at dinner is too distant now to be an excuse not to drive. There’s nothing more to watch on his crummy TV. No reason to be here at all, other than she doesn’t want to leave and he doesn’t want her to go. So here they are, together in his bed as Christmas Day dims to starry twilight outside. His thumb strokes across the nape of her neck as she lies in his arms. Watching him watching her.

He can’t keep the smile off his face. Not his usual sardonic shark’s grin, either. Something softer; something she’s only really seen in their stolen time together. Because he is in love with her. Heart full of it. Of course, he’s told her as much before, but she never really believed him. Only now – as he sighs happily, his nose tracing hers before he presses another soft kiss to her mouth – now she can no longer deny it.

She runs her hand along his chin and kisses him in return. Her other palm pressed to his chest inside his half-buttoned shirt. His heartbeat in her hand.

“I, uh,” he says, clearing awkwardness from his throat when they break apart. “I have something for you.”

“Really?”

“Well, it is fucking Christmas.”

She can’t quite supress a laugh. “I – I know.”

“It isn’t much,” he warns, untangling himself to go and retrieve the gift. “Don’t get too excited.”

He pads away barefoot, returning with a package sealed in shiny paper. It is tightly wrapped, in far too much tape, making it hard to tear. Eventually she manages to unpeel a small box that turns out to contain a metallic tube, something like miniature telescope.

“A viewfinder?” she breathes.

“Yeah. Figured, you know, since you’re in the directing gig these days... might come in handy.”

“It’s – it’s too much−”

He merely rolls his eyes at her predictable demur. “Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome, Ruth.”

“I, um, I wasn’t sure if we were going to do gifts,” she stumbles.

“It’s fine. We never said−”

“I got you something too.”

“Oh.”

Her present is less impenetrable, a plain box hidden in her coat pocket that he opens to reveal a handsome fountain pen. “Sam,” he reads, from the engraving on the side, “With love, Ruth.”

Wording she agonised over, and hearing it in his voice makes her heart thump painfully against her ribs and question the wisdom all over again. “Is it… okay?” she hears herself ask.

“Yeah,” he says, his own voice suspiciously thick, and she has no idea if he means the pen, the words or both. “Yeah, it’s great.” He kisses her again, slower and deeper this time. “Merry Christmas, Ruth.”

“Merry Christmas, Sam,” she returns, and pulls him back down onto the mattress with her.

* * *

There’s plenty to fill the time between Christmas festivities and New Year celebrations at the network, of course. Ratings to be poured over, plans for the 1988 season to be debated and finalised. Sets to be designed and supervised.

And they’re careful never to arrive together, to always leave at different times. Until predictably she forgets to set an alarm and they oversleep. Forced to follow one another late into the parking lot.

“What the fuck happened to you?” he says, loudly, as they walk inside. Wearing yesterday’s rumpled shirt and two day’s-worth of stubble; entirely obvious he spent the last night away from home. But this is Sam, after all. Just occasionally that bad reputation he’s worked so hard on affords him a certain freedom.

“My car wouldn’t start.”

“Oh, well—”

“Don’t… insult Nelly, alright? That car has seen me through a lot.”

He makes an incredulous kind of face. “Nelly? Like the fucking elephant?”

She gives him a look, as they carry on down the corridor. “Yes, because of course I would name my car after a circus animal.”

* * *

An envelope lands on her desk at noon, sent through the internal mail. She eyes it suspiciously before opening. A single sheet of paper is inside.

_Think we got away with it?_

She shakes her head. He might have left his initials off, but she recognises the handwriting, in black ink from his new fountain pen. She picks up her ‘phone and dials the number for his writer’s room.

“Sam Sylvia—”

“I got your note,” she says, “and… I think so. But if you keep abusing office mail like this—”

“Oh, come on! No one’s reading your post, Ruth. I assume you’re very busy right now, as you’re taking this opportunity to criticise me?”

“I’m editing scripts!”

“Right. For a show that doesn’t even start filming till February—”

“What are you so busy doing, then?”

She can hear him take a breath on the other end of the line. “Asking you to come and have lunch with me?”

Now it’s her turn to pause. “Sam.”

“Come on. We can take it in public, if you’re worried about us looking professional.”

She makes a noise of indignation, but she’d be a liar to pretend she doesn’t want to see him too. “Okay.”

“ _Great_. See you in the canteen in ten.”

* * *

She finds him on the edge of the dancefloor as the DJ announces ten more minutes ‘til midnight. Dapper in his new tuxedo once more. This time she’s dressed in green velvet and silver sequins; an off the shoulder costume picked out for her by Jenny. They’re here to network, to impress. She’s a character rather than her real self, feigning a confidence she doesn’t really feel inside, and the dress goes with that. Still, she appreciates the way it makes his eyes widen at the sight of her; the smile it brings to his face.

“Hey,” he says, having to lean in close to make himself heard over the music. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty good. I think the guys from Jones Productions are actually interested in co-development.”

“Well, that’s promising.”

They watch the assembled great and good of Los Angeles network television for a moment together. “Not sure how much more negotiation we’re likely to get done tonight,” she concedes, as the JP contingent joins the growing throng on the dancefloor.

“No,” he agrees. Using the pretence of being heard over the noise to brush a kiss against her earlobe. She shivers involuntarily. “So, do you have a plan for how you’d like to spend your last few minutes of 1987?”

“Yes,” she returns with a smile. “I think I do.”

She slips her hand in his. It’s busy and noisy and no one is going to notice if they disappear now, before the countdown. She leads him down a hotel corridor. Thick carpets muffling their steps, velvet curtains drinking in the sound. Away from the party, somewhere quiet and empty where she can press her face to his and kiss him senseless.

And she can hear the muffled sound of the DJ, starting the countdown to the new year as they find themselves making out in what seems to be a broom closet. _Ten_! She rolls her hips against his erection. _Nine_! He retaliates by grabbing her ass, pulling her roughly against him. _Eight! Seven!_ Cupping her breasts as she slides her hand into his pants. _Six_! As she unbuttons him. _Five_! As he pushes up her dress. _Four_! Pulling down her panties. _Three_! She wraps her arms around his neck as he hoists her up. _Two_! _One_!

He pushes inside her as the sound of cheers ring out, cries of _happy new year!_ She laughs against his mouth at the absurdity of the moment, the ridiculousness of their need for one another, as the first strains of Auld Langs Syne begin to play.


End file.
